by Tyler Wolfe
I wasn’t born yesterday, and I knew Bob taking over would lead to an even greater stress at work. Egotistical people tend to be overconfident to begin with. Their self-absorbed attitudes leave them thinking that everything they do is the absolute right decision.
Fast forward six months, and Bob’s idiocy had cost us numerous business opportunities, several high-end clients, and a bunch of good employees. He just couldn’t see that he was the problem.
His response to the complaints had been predictable: a crackdown, threatening to fire even more employees. Because obviously the thing to do when things aren’t going right is to blame others and send them on their way. It was such lunacy.
The problem was, he had managed to target some long-term people who were actually loyal and had never given him a problem. His excuse seemed to be that they were less productive than the rest of us, but I knew the truth.
Bullies went after the quiet ones who were working hard to get along. They viewed gentleness and a mild nature as weaknesses. It was a popularity contest and an effing fiasco. Bob wanted like-minded idiots to be on his team. His little game was pathetic and reminded me of middle school.
The strange thing was that Bob very rarely leaned on me. The fact that I was friends with Wendy, our highest earning sales rep, probably helped that. But the strength of his reaction was a mystery.
Now and again, he seemed to consider making me his latest target, coming over and looming over my desk like he always did to whomever he had chosen to pick on that day. But when I looked up at him from behind my workstation, the same thing always happened. His bloodshot hazel eyes widened, and he hesitated visibly.
I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I reminded him of someone from his past. Or maybe he was scared of Wendy’s pull and ability to cause trouble for him. With just one look into my eyes, he always backed off with whatever nonsense he had been planning to unload on me. Instead, he would just drop some pointless comment or instructions and lumber away, taking the smell of his cheap cologne with him.
Too bad Bob didn’t have to bully me directly to muck up my entire day.
I hated staff meetings. They had turned into chaotic group arguments within a month of Bob taking over. I got through them by keeping quiet while everyone else was snapping snarky comments at each other.
Watching Dan Evans and Coraline Walsh—Cora for those of us who were her friends—protest in shock as they were given their marching orders had left me gritting my teeth in a rage.
Poor Cora had cried as Bob berated her, and I felt my fists clench under the table so tightly that my knuckles ached. I wanted nothing more than to come to Cora’s aid and tell Bob how much of a pig-faced dick he was in front everyone, but I knew keeping my job was far more important.
Someday Bob would get what he deserved, so I sat quietly like the others and didn’t say a word. An hour later, at my desk, I looked down at my hands and saw the rows of red crescents where my nails had bitten into my skin.
I always worked very hard to keep my temper around people. But God, I hated bullies and Bob was a bully and a half. I could swear he had enjoyed Coraline’s tears. I had to just sit there and think of my job and Zoe, who chipped in on half the bills but still relied on me to have the stable paycheck.
I had seven years at my job. Decent seniority, and with nearly everyone else running for the hills, my loyalty to the company was still valuable to Corporate. Not to Bob, of course.
I couldn’t wait until they got rid of that over-sized blowhard. The fantasies I had about kicking his ass had satisfied the urge for years. But now I now felt a dangerous unsteadiness inside me when I thought about him and I probably wasn’t the only one.
Every time that Bob’s ineptness and petty-tyrant attitude sent someone out the door, the lunchroom conversations got very morbid. I often found myself smiling awkwardly through a round of “Ha ha, I wonder if one of us is going to snap and shoot the place up.” My co-workers treated it like a joke, but their smiles were forced as well. When it got really bad, I ate lunch at my desk for a week just to avoid those uncomfortable conversations.
I showered off as soon as I got home that evening, having spent too much time in a metal box where I had to choose between adequate air conditioning and not overheating my engine. I changed into shorts and a t-shirt, took an aspirin for my headache, sipped water, and waited impatiently for sundown.
Zoe had asked me once why I liked running so much. I hadn’t wanted to scare her with an ugly story, so instead I had simply called it my stress relief. Which it was—so much that I could barely wait for it. For hours that evening I paced around our place like a tiger in a cage.
My first few steps outside the house at nine filled me with relief, even as the hot, humid air smacked me in the face. This wouldn’t be the most comfortable run but I didn’t care. I needed it. I headed out.
Fernery and the streets beyond it made up a blue collar, lower income kind of area: smaller homes than on my street, including a few that maybe weren’t in the best of shape. The yards were sparse, cluttered and overgrown. Their picket fences repaired multiple times, and the hedges and trees usually leggy and untrimmed. Porch lights flickered on either side of the road, drawing clouds of bugs, but doing more to light the street than the distant streetlights, both of which were barely functioning.
It was quiet enough that the strongest sounds were my steady breathing and the slap of my running shoes on the pavement. Sometimes a mosquito buzzed past. Far off, I could hear the faint pace of cars on the highway.
The street was deserted at night, with only the occasional glow of a television breaking the darkness inside each house. It was as if almost everyone was already in bed. There were a lot of poor retirees on this street, and young families with little kids who ran their parents ragged by mid-evening.
Blue-collar people usually had to get up early for work. I knew that from having a few blue-collar jobs myself. During the day this street was noisy as hell, but at least they ended the party early.
It was a big reason why I had chosen this stretch for my route. If I wanted to deal with a lot of people every time I went outside, I’d just run around my office parking lot.
Fernery Road’s monotony of houses and empty lots broke up near the T-intersection. Down near the end of the street there were some private drives that were gated. Those long drives led to some big homes that were recessed and hidden by the surrounding woods. Some backed up onto the lake and had their own docks.
They were old, eccentric places owned by old, eccentric families, who had lived here since before Lakeland grew this far north. Local kids dared each other to climb over their tall iron fences, only to get quickly chased out by dogs or caretakers.
There was also an aging, run-down apartment complex at the very end of the street. It was relatively small, with three two-story buildings. It had a tennis court and a pool in need of serious repair, and a faded plastic play set that hadn’t been updated since the early nineties.
As I ran past, I thought it looked that at one time it would have been a nice place to live. Now, just a dump inhabited by some of North Lakeland’s finest.
Just like a lot of places in Lakeland, the complex hadn’t been maintained much over the past thirty or so years. A lot of places around town looked like they were once nice, but never had any money reinvested in years to maintain their appearances.
It seemed like most landlords just squeezed every dollar out of their rentals until they couldn't rent them out any longer. Places now that should be condemned are put up for sale as “fixer uppers” and the slumlords move on.
The whole scam was sad yet typical for Lakeland and what’s even more mind boggling is how expensive the rental market had gotten. It was a town with low wages and high rent. Hooray for capitalism.
As I turned the corner to run past the complex, I could hear loud arguing through an open apartment window. The couple’s emotional screeching was starting to drill a hole into my head. It wasn’t just their obnoxiou
s shouting, but the content of their argument. It gave me flashbacks of yesterday’s fight with Zoe.
“What do you mean they’re not giving any raises the next two years? You’ve already been waiting for three!”
“What do you want me to do, Zoe? They know I’m overdue, but the cheap bastards don’t care! It’s not like I can make them give me a raise.”
“I know that, Carter, but you yourself said that if we’re going to have a baby, I’m going to have to cut back my work hours. That means you have to be making more money.”
“Yeah, and that’s another reason why we’re just going to have to wait on the whole baby thing for now.”
I had felt bad for reminding her, and even though I had done it gently, she had sulked for the rest of the night. I could see her face clearly as I ran, full lips twisted with anger, her brown eyes sullen and sad. I shook off the thought and pushed on.
The male half of the fight was calling his woman a whore in Spanish for complaining that he didn’t have a job. I picked up a little speed, muttering “shut up, shut up” under my breath until I was far enough past the window that the voices faded.
I kept having to remember to unclench my jaw and fists as I ran. I caught myself a few times with my knuckles aching and my molars starting to grind. Each time, I took a deep breath and released the tension forcibly as I ran on.
It was hard not to ponder my surroundings. Why was everything here so vastly different from up north? It’s like nobody ever put any real thought into anything, especially where things were built.
It was strange to me that a home, a business, a park, a bar, or anything else could be right next to each other. There could be a gas station right next to someone’s house, a cemetery across from a high school, or a mansion neighboring a mobile home park. It was just weird.
This neighborhood was just another example. At the end of Fernery where the gates to a few private mansions flanked the run-down apartment complex, was an enormous vacant lot full of weeds, sitting right between two run-down, but occupied houses. It all just seemed...hodgepodge.
I crossed the street when I reached the lot, wary of the shadows beyond its broken-down fence. Then out of the blue, as if someone had pulled my imaginary e-brake, I stopped and looked around for a minute.
Never before had I ever felt any sense of uneasiness on my run but there was something going on tonight. Something wasn’t right. Something had me on alert and my mind kept telling me to go home.
After a two-second debate I convinced myself it was a bit more humid out tonight than I had originally thought. And with my sweat-soaked shirt now feeling more uncomfortable than ever, I turned back.
As I jogged back past the shady apartment complex’s equally shadowy parking lot, I glanced into it, and saw a dark, lanky figure leaning against a tree near the exit, arms folded. As I ran past I felt as though I was being watched. Not a surprise though, as I was the only thing moving down the street. But still, I felt uneasy. I trekked on.
Work edged into my mind again, distracting me. Greta had been fighting with the Board to get me the raise she had promised when she had fallen ill. Bob, of course, was a cheap bastard and refused to follow through. When I brought the mess up with our new corporate investors downtown, they had been uninterested. One had quietly suggested that I consider a transfer to a different location “with more advancement opportunities.”
I caught myself gritting my teeth again and relaxed my jaw. I had enough stress in my life from the job, bills and conflicts with Zoe without throwing in a move and adjusting to a new set of co-workers. Then I thought maybe I should go for it. If I’m willing to move to an out-of-state branch, they’ll pay for a lot of the move, and Zoe and I can finally be somewhere other than this hot, messed up disappointment of a city.
Yet thinking of it, I found myself running into a mental wall. I was exhausted; fed up, and had no idea how I would talk Zoe into a move anyway, especially when our marriage was as close to on-the-rocks as it had ever been.
I wished to God that my job paid well enough that she didn’t have to take the damn night shift. She was a good bartender and server, and the bar and grill where she worked valued her work and made sure none of the patrons got creepy with her.
But, it meant that I came home to an empty house every single night except for Wednesdays and Sundays. And we were always spending our rare time together “yesterday” fighting.
I can’t believe she’s still nagging me about wanting a baby. Didn’t she understand that with money tight and our schedules out of sync, we couldn’t do right by a kid right now? We have to fix these problems first. I don’t want to be one of those families that leave it up to everyone else to raise a kid! I’d rather not be a parent at all than do it wrong.
Zoe said she admired my ideals, and that she understood my reasons, but it still didn’t stop her from wanting a kid. Maybe it was pressure from her Mom up in Philly, or some maternal, instinctive thing, but it drove me more than a little crazy—just another stressful reminder that we weren’t getting any younger and it was up to me to fix the problems that made having a baby not possible right now. There just wasn’t anything I could do to change our current situation…
Suddenly my head jerked up, and I dragged my mind out of my problems. I felt a presence behind me. Like someone was following me.
CHAPTER 3
Fit of Rage
As I looked back to see what was pulling my attention, I saw a shadowed figure in the distance perhaps fifteen or so yards behind me. I stopped to try to focus for a better look, but the night’s darkness made it impossible to tell if this person was coming toward me or away.
Within seconds I could hear the faint scuff of his sneakers seemingly growing louder and I grew tense. Was this the dark figure I had glimpsed a minute ago standing in the parking lot?
At this point I could now see the person in question was in fact coming towards me and he, or she, was not walking, but dog-trotting down the sidewalk after me.
This section of road toward the end of Fernery was almost black except for the blue glow of televisions illuminating closed curtains from a few houses lining the street. This person couldn’t have seen me well enough to recognize me, so whatever his problem was, it was personal. But then when I crossed the street, and he followed, I knew he, as I could now see, was targeting me.
Before turning back around in efforts to apply my pay-no-mind strategy—the one that previously kept me from becoming enemies with a neighborhood pit bull—I finally saw my aggressor was a tall, lanky shaped figure in black sweats, hooded up, and speeding up as he walked after me.
Fuck. The dark kept his face shadowed, and I instantly got the feeling that he wasn’t hurrying after me because he was looking to make a new friend.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as muscle memory sent my hands frantically frisking my shorts for my cell. No pocket space for a smart phone in these shorts. It was as if my thoughts were mocking me. I never had brought one anyway because what could go wrong one street over from where I lived. Everything Zoe worried and nagged me about was finally becoming a reality.
My next thought was to just run. Run away. Just like all the times before in my life. It was the same reason I had started running track in junior high: the ability to take off and leave any chump who wanted a piece of me in the dust.
The poor, skinny kid from Akron, Ohio couldn’t fight off the average bully. But he could outrun them, once he trained enough, and I trained daily.
I was no longer that scrawny thirteen-year-old. I might not have had the physique of a football player but I was fit, athletic. Also, a grown man. It was time to stop running and finally face my fears…I kept walking.
“Got a dollar?” The voice came from just a few feet behind me. And he sounded barely winded.
...Great.
I just kept going, pretending like I didn’t hear what he asked. Yeah, so much for facing my fears.
“Bro, you deaf? I asked if you got
a dollar!” I heard his footsteps speed up.
What the hell is your problem, dude? I finally paused and half turned around, wondering if he was going to try to mug me. Between the darkness and the hoodie he was wearing, he was barely more than a threatening silhouette.
“How about you fuck off and bother someone else?” I snapped back. I could hardly believe my boldness as I turned back to start jogging again.
“The fuck did you just say to me?” he demanded, voice full of blind, dumb-kid aggression.
“I don’t have any cash so go bother someone else.” I started to pick up my pace and heard him panting behind me. He was definitely younger than me and fit enough to keep up. Panic brewed in my gut, and the adrenaline started stirring up every single frustration and fear that I had been trying to burn off on my run. My mind was going crazy.
I thought about the raise refusal. About Bob, and Zoe. Our money problems. That goddamn meeting. Cora’s tears. My helplessness. Bullies past and present. Memories. Memories. Bad memories.
“Hey, look at that skinny wimp run! I bet we can still catch him!”
They never could. And now....
“You better find some goddamn cash motherfucker, or I’m going to fuck you up!” The unseen stranger’s voice was all aggression, every other word or so half-shouted for emphasis.
I wondered if he was drunk, crazy, or just stupid. Clearly, he didn’t seem to realize I was in running shorts and a sweat-soaked t-shirt. How anyone would begin to think I have a wallet on me beat the heck out of me. Maybe he was too busy being a dumb, desperate kid to use his brain. Some kids are good at that.
My fists clenched so hard they began to ache and the pounding in my head was back. All I could think of was, if he touches me, I will make him pay for it in knocked-out teeth. Goddamned bullies. Nothing ever changes!
“Look, you dumb piece of shit, I … don’t … have … any … cash. I angrily yanked my sweaty empty pockets out.
“Even if I did, I still wouldn’t give you a FUCKING DIME!” My voice was a snarl, and to my relief, didn’t shake.